1

Late January

Thirty-thousand feet, nothing but an endless stretch of blue below, no escape in sight on the long flight from Dartmouth, Nova Scotia to Florida. Tim rubbed his temples with the index and middle fingers of both hands and wondered how likely their chances of making the play-offs would be if he gave a few of his boys a crash course in free-falling. There had to be parachutes on the plane. They’d be fine as long as they landed in one piece.

However, with tempers flaring between the men, they might not survive this flight.

“Give the baby his fucking pillow, Kral.” The Dartmouth Cobras’ captain, Sloan Callahan, stared out the window, not even bothering to turn as the two men struggling in the aisle bumped into the empty seat next to him. “He don’t kick your ass for being a pain, I will.”

“The baby” was the team’s rookie left winger, Ian White. When he’d joined the team at the beginning of the season, he’d been a couple inches shorter than the defenseman, Peter Kral, and a few pounds lighter. White had gained about twenty pounds since and now matched Kral in height. Tim wasn’t sure if it was boredom from the long delay before their flight or what, but the players were taking turns getting on each other’s nerves. Kral picking on the rookie for the black pillowcase with a white Transformer’s logo on the pillow the kid carried around to every away game made things so much worse. The team had started calling White “Bruiser” after his first week on the ice. Started because he managed two black eyes, a nasty bruise on his jaw, and a lump on his forehead during that same week.

Now it was because he was recognized as a gritty fighter who would throw down his gloves to defend his teammates. And he turned into a damn caveman when he got riled up.

Kral had gotten White nice and pissed off. Tim undid his seatbelt and apologized to the young assistant trainer sitting next to him as he slid past to separate his players. He banged his head on the underside of the luggage bin as he straightened. The dull pain slowed him down for just a second.

Long enough for things to deteriorate. Shoving and snarling, both White and Kral ended up on the floor. Their biggest defenseman, Dominik Mason, the only black player on the team, hauled White up to his knees by the back of his neck. Tim couldn’t tell what Mason was saying, but he caught a few growled curses from all three.

Better and better.

Near the back of the plane, the team’s head coach, Paul Stanton, glanced up from the newspaper he was reading, looking at Tim expectantly.

Right. Apparently controlling the team is the assistant coach’s job. Get to it, Rowe.

“That’s enough, boys.” Tim pried Mason’s hand from White’s neck. Mason’s jaw ticked, but he stepped back. Now all Tim had to do was separate the idiots on the floor. “White, Kral, get up. You’re representing the team and—”

“I’m gonna kill him! Then I’m gonna throw him off the damn plane!” White’s teeth snapped together at the sound of ripping fabric. The stupid pillow was between him and Kral. The pillowcase had ripped. White released it and drew back his fist. “You son of a—”

“What’s going on here? Excuse me, sir.” A curvy flight attendant carefully sidled by Tim and caught White by the wrist. “Young man, on your feet.”

“He ripped it! That’s mine, you asshole!” White stood and lunged for Kral, who’d scrambled back a few feet. “I’m gonna kill him!”

Thankfully, White didn’t try to get past the flight attendant. But he was shaking with rage and Tim knew he was going to completely lose it if someone didn’t rein him in. The way White’s eyes glistened had Tim wondering if he didn’t need fucking restraints.